


The Things You Do For John Watson

by wsherlocksholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF Mary, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, S3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:59:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wsherlocksholmes/pseuds/wsherlocksholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John falls into a deep depression after Mary supposedly dies in childbirth. He moves back to Baker Street with Sherlock and his daughter, Lucy. Together the two men must save each other from their own troubles and put an end to Moriarty's schemes.<br/>(Takes place after s3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock!" John protested. "Sherlock, you can't just accuse little old ladies of multiple murders when you know perfectly well that Mrs. Wimbledon is innocent!"

"Well why not?" Sherlock demanded.

John gave an exasperated sigh. Beneath that mass of luscious dark curls was a brilliant mind that never ceased to amaze him. And yet, it was amazing how little that mind seemed to know about human nature. It was a mind in a man that had been called coldhearted, egotistical, and some harsher words as well. But John knew better than the gossip shrouding the mysterious man.

Beneath those curls was a mind racing at the speed of light, a mind trying persistently to solve the mysteries of the universe with his remarkable sense of logic while simultaneously making Sherlock Holmes himself another of the universe's mysteries.

"Because it's not right," Lestrade said bluntly, exhausted with Sherlock's antics.

"Well it was effective," Sherlock said, dismissing the man's comment.

"Sherlock, remember what we talked about," John muttered in his companion's ear. His nose tickled as it brushed against the long hair.

Lavender. He had been using John's shampoo again. John rolled his eyes, unsurprised. It seemed Sherlock borrowed everything the doctor owned without regard to privacy or personal boundaries.

"Emotions, feelings," Sherlock began, waving his arms in a dramatic manner. "Ridiculousness of the simple mind!"

"You know, I'm still waiting for you to be one of the bodies I find at a crime scene," remarked Lestrade.

"Oh no, I'm simply too intelligent for the average killer."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Compassion, remember?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes, compassion. Right. 'Challenge yourself by trying to understand people on an emotional level.' It's not a challenge, John, it's a nuisance!"

"Well for it not being a challenge you sure seem to be struggling at it," John deadpanned.

Sherlock turned to him with cold blue eyes. "There is a murderer out there. I don't have time for feelings and compassion."

"No, you never do, do you?" John replied, cocking his head to the side in question. When Sherlock turned back to the dead body lying in a puddle of dried blood on the asphalt, John shook his head. He slipped under the police tape and walked away at a brisk pace, refusing to look back.

Lestrade shook his head. "Problems at home?" he asked, crouching down to inspect the gash on the victim's forehead.

Sherlock watched the retreating outline of Doctor John Watson, storming his way through the midday streets of London. "He doesn't approve of my methods. He's rather bitter lately."

"And you don't think it has anything to do with you I'm guessing?"

Sherlock looked down at Lestrade. "Why would it?" he asked, furrowing his forehead.

"You know, Sherlock, for a genius you can be quite dense."

~

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called, throwing open the door. "Mrs. Hudson... oh shut up!"

"Sherlock, you can't tell a baby to shut up!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, appearing in the foyer with a crying infant in her arms. "She's tired. Or hungry. Or upset. Who knows? She's a baby."

"Mrs. Hudson, I need John and I can't think with all that noise!"

"I haven't seen John dear, but why don't you try playing that violin of yours to calm her down? You know how she likes it."

"I don't have time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with unveiled annoyance. "I have dead bodies waiting for me."

"And you have a crying baby here for you," Mrs. Hudson said, passing off the child into his arms. "Now don't you roll your eyes at me, Sherlock. I'm your landlady, not your nanny."

"Besides," she mumbled, "I need a joint." Mrs. Hudson walked off, holding her head in one hand and leaving Sherlock uncomfortably bouncing the still screaming child in his arms.

Sherlock looked down at the scrunched red face. Beneath the squeezed-shut eyelids were startling blue eyes. Mary's eyes. Sherlock sighed with regret. He had promised, vowed, to protect all three of them. And he had tried so hard. But childbirth complications were not his area of expertise, despite having many areas of expertise. He couldn't save Mary. He could only try to console John in the best ways he knew how.

Regret was an unnatural feeling for Sherlock. Any form of emotion was rather unnatural for him. He separated himself from emotion and human connection, and was quite good at it too. But then this man named John Watson needed a roommate and a place to live, and Sherlock needed an assistant for his cases. And despite being a high-functioning sociopath, it hurt like hell to leave him behind for two years. And it hurt even more to return to a different man.

The John he had first met was a soldier who had seen enough dead bodies for a lifetime and craved the thrill of seeing more. He lived for the chaos, just like Sherlock, anxious to dive into the mysteries of London. But when he returned from his two-year stint at being dead, he returned to a different man. A different John Watson. This man was broken, held together by the woman he rested on, Mary. This man had seen another dead body too many and had finally snapped inside. He had spent too many days in

the cemetery, looking at a secretly empty grave with glazed-over eyes and a sickening weight in his chest.

He had not returned to an eccentric John Watson. He had returned to a John Watson who had erased Sherlock Holmes from his mind to cope and move on, eventually into the arms of the future Mrs. Watson. And now it was reversed, with a dead body that wasn't coming back to life and a less compassionate person to lean on. Mary's death had been an inconvenience to Sherlock, but it was more than that. He genuinely missed her cheeky comments and the way she teased John. He even missed her emotional outbursts attributed to the hormonal imbalance that was part of pregnancy. Mostly he missed the way John smiled while she was still alive.

Sherlock rocked the baby in his arms as he took her upstairs to her cradle. With his foot he gently swayed the infant to the rhythm of the melancholy tune wailing from his violin, watching the fussing slow as he lulled her into sleep.

~

John slowed his pace five blocks from the crime scene as his frustration slowly dissipated. Sherlock Holmes was not human; he was a machine incapable of sorrow or emotional pain or the struggles of the human spirit that plagued John every day since his wife's death. Sometimes it was so easy to believe the stigma surrounding the man.

And yet, John knew him better than that. He saw the way his hands trembled at Mary's funeral even though he held a stoic face. He heard him wake with a groan at odd hours of the night to soothe the baby's cries, alternating shifts with John without a word. He was unbearable at times, many times, but he was also John's best friend.

And it was the insane Sherlock Holmes who kept John afloat. It was his joking humor that was first able to pull a smile from what had seemed to be a permanent frown. It was with the assistance of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson that he was able to care for his daughter. And this time it was Sherlock holding John together, keeping his mind occupied with case after case, keeping him away from the bottles that had been calling his name.

But dammit, lately it was hard to put up with Sherlock Holmes. Compassion. John had given a speech to him about compassion.

~

"Sherlock, I know you have your ways, but you must remember to be compassionate."

"Compassion. What does compassion have to do with anything?"

"Compassion is what people do, Sherlock. I don't know if anyone told you this before, but people have these things called feelings. And they're... No, don't you roll your eyes at me. Shut up and listen. People have feelings and they're important. Feelings and compassion were the difference between Mary

putting a bullet through your brain and a bullet through your abdomen. And when you investigate on cases, remember some compassion, because a lot of the people we talk to have taken a bullet to the heart."

"If they had a bullet in their heart they'd be dead John, and despite rumors that I'm 'crazy,' I don't talk to dead people."

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's a bloody metaphor! Don't ruin the metaphor!"

Sherlock stared back at him for a while, his gaze unwavering. "John," he asked softly. "Did Mary put a bullet in your heart?"

John looked at his friend, speechless, until his vision started blurring and he left the room.

~

John had two bullet holes in his heart. One was scarred over after bleeding for two years. The other was fresh still. And what made the wound ache most was the struggle it took to hold his baby girl and look into those familiar blue eyes. It pained him to see Mary's features in the infant's face. Some days he could not hold her at all. Some days he stayed in bed, hidden under the covers, hiding from the reality of the world.

Those were the days that living with Sherlock was most difficult.

~

"Dammit, John, wake up!" Sherlock shoved the motionless mass beneath the covers. "John, Lucy just won't stop crying! You're her father! Bloody hell, get up and do something!"

Sherlock pulled the quilt away from John's face. Lifeless eyes peered out, staring mindlessly at nothing in particular. "John I have cases and clients and it's not my screaming baby!"

John continued to stare with glazed eyes.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Sherlock, is John getting up?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, he's staying in bed like a bum and can't even take care of his own bloody daughter! For Christ's sake John, it's been four months now!" Sherlock stood by the bedside, waiting for a response that would not come before storming off to care for Lucy's needs.

~

"No John today?" Lestrade asked, looking up from the body on the ground to see Sherlock approach. "By the way, you're quite late."

Sherlock glided over to stand beside the crouched detective. "He won't get out of bed," he said bluntly. "The victim was a uniformed worker, by the looks of it bank teller. Approximately 27 years in age, and..."

"Hold, hold on a moment," Lestrade interrupted, holding up a hand. "He won't get out of bed?"

"Yes, and it made me quite late. I had to heat bottles and change diapers," replied Sherlock as he wrinkled his nose. "As I was saying..."

"Sherlock, doesn't that worry you?"

"Should it? It has become a regular habit."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock. Yes, it should concern you! The man won't get out of bed to care for his own daughter, that's a problem."

"So what do I do? You know I don't do well with anything involving... Feelings."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Does he see a bloody therapist?"

"No, he just... Lies there."

"Well dammit Sherlock, the man's wife died and he's clearly depressed! It doesn't take a genius to know that he should see a bloody therapist!"

Sherlock's gaze wandered to the distance. He stood still, contemplating Greg's words. "There was an affair with the boss. The wife did it," he announced. With that, he spun on his heel and raised his collar, leaving the scene.

"Where the hell are you going?" Lestrade called out.

"To find the best damn therapist in London," Sherlock replied without breaking stride or looking back.

~

13:18

Get dressed.

 

13:24

You're going out.

 

13:28

John answer your damn phone

 

13:29

You're going to a therapist.

 

13:30

And not that awful one you saw before. Top notch this time.

 

13:35

Dammit John I'm trying to be compassionate so answer the bloody phone.

 

Sherlock stared at the cell screen, waiting for a reply. It never came.

~

"John, John dear. I've noticed recently that some of my, ah, painkillers for my hip have gone missing. Do you know anything about that?" Mrs. Hudson scurried into his bedroom, expecting a reply.

John remained motionless in bed, staring at the wall. His phone beeped but he didn't even flinch.

"Oh John dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered. She sat on the edge of his bed and began stroking his silvered hair, looking more gray than silver recently. "I'll go fix you a cuppa," she said, bounding off towards the kitchen. "And you should really answer that phone of yours. It's nonstop ringing."

John made no movement.

~

Sherlock burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Oh Sherlock, you're just in time to change Lucy's diaper!" Mrs. Hudson piped.

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson! I'm quite busy at the moment."

"Well you look to me like you have time to change a diaper!" Sirens blared as a police car pulled up to the home. "Oh Sherlock, what is it now?" she sighed.

"I told you Mrs. Hudson, I'm busy!" he replied as he climbed the steps two at a time, followed by two officers.

They burst into John's bedroom. "There, see? The man needs help."

"I thought you said there was a man shot in the heart..." one of the officers said, scratching his head. "He looks alive to me."

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes upward. "It's a metaphor. Don't ruin the metaphor."

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" He turned to the two men standing awkwardly behind the detective. "Why the hell are you in my room?"

"Um, you don't happen to require medical assistance, do you sir?" one of the men asked uncomfortably.

"No, I do not," John growled. "Now get the hell out!"

The officers scampered out of the room as John turned to face Sherlock. "What the hell was that?"

"Compassion, John. You've been shot in the heart. You need assistance."

"Well I sure as hell don't need it from you!"

In the background Lucy started crying. "For Christ's sake Sherlock, look what you did now!"

"John I... I was only trying to help. Therapy. That's what you need."

"What I need is for you to stay the hell away from me!"

John's fits were clenched and quivering with anger. Sherlock lifted a brow in confusion. Maybe the ambulance had been somewhat extravagant, but John was fuming and looked ready to snap in a moment. The last time Sherlock saw him this upset, he was thrown to the ground in the middle of a restaurant as Mary tried to pull John off.

"I won't pretend to understand human emotions, but I do believe you are overreacting. And I'm the one who's supposed to overreact. We already established that pattern." Sherlock watched as John's face continued to redden with anger, still uncertain of the frustration. "Did I... miscalculate something?"

"Miscalculate?" John whispered, barely holding back the rage coursing through his blood. "You think this is a... miscalculation?" John looked away and took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. "Sherlock, do you have any idea why I want to murder you right now?"

"Murder me? I try to show this compassion you preach about and you want to murder me?"

"Yes, and you sure as hell make it sound more appealing each time you open your mouth."

"I..."

"No! Shut up! Do you remember when you pissed me off at that crime scene two weeks ago?"

"Well yes, I remember everything." _And then you started staying in bed for periods at a time..._ he began calculating in his head.

"Well, I went to a café to relax, and you want to know what was delivered with my tea? This." John turned behind him and pulled a handwritten letter from beneath his pillowcase. With a shaking hand he gave it to Sherlock, who took it cautiously, studying John's face before lowering his gaze to read.

"Oh. Oh, _fuck_ ," Sherlock whispered. He looked up to see tears streaming from John's eyes.

"We killed her. We killed her Sherlock," John choked out, then began sobbing uncontrollably.


	2. Banned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out the truth about Sherlock and the six-month mission

Moriarty was supposed to be dead. Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes. The trigger pulled, sending a bullet into his skull, splattering blood. He shot himself, forcing Sherlock to jump. Keeping him away for two years. Away from London. Away from John.

John. It crushed John.

Sherlock prided himself on his superior intellect. And then came Moriarty, the villain to his fairytale. But Sherlock Holmes had never created the life of a fairytale for himself. He was a highly functioning sociopath, not a hero. He was not born for that role.

Jim Moriarty was mad. Sherlock was not homicidal. He had no desire to kill. It was only his vow and his deep desire to protect John Watson that guided the bullet from the pistol in his hand to the brain of Magnusson. Moriarty, however, craved playing fatal games with the simpleminded, and testing the intellect of the proclaimed genius Sherlock Holmes. "That's what they do. People DIE!"

But not Jim Moriarty, no. He was alive, taunting the detective once again. He had aimed guns at Sherlock's chest. He had strapped John with explosives. He had threatened the lives of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if Sherlock did not jump to his supposed death.

But his message was clear now. He was done with the teasing. He was ready to act, to pull the trigger, to set off the explosions. And to prove it, he had taken Mary's life.

"It was really quite simple," the letter read. "Everyone has their pressure point, and everyone has their price. Give them money or consequences and they're all puppets, and I'm the master who knows what strings to pull."

Mary had been murdered.

~

John had struggled with the leaden words in the letter, weighing him down and sinking him into his mattress. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault. But it was hard to know his association with his best friend had killed his wife. Sherlock rose from the dead and Mary fell into her grave. And the question pounded in his mind: Sherlock or Mary? It was hard to swallow the fact that he could not have both; only one. It was a decision he would never be able to make on his own.

But he didn't have to. Moriarty had made it for him.

Moriarty. The name was acid on his tongue, fire in his veins. The man who had taken his best friend away from him for two years. Two fucking years of visiting an empty grave. And such a long time of wondering whether or not tomorrow was worth greeting. This man was keen on taking everything from John's life. Everything he valued. Because it was simply a sick game to him.

There were men who found thrill in life's chaos, like John and Sherlock. Then there were those who found thrill in birthing mayhem.

~

"John, I... I'm so sorry." Sherlock's words were a whisper. His deep voice sounded pained, and his sharp gray eyes shimmered with brimming tears.

John looked at the man built of stone and saw the cracks that had formed. He watched him sit down, fumbling to make sure he landed in the chair, as his hands gave the slightest hint of a tremor that caused the letter to quiver ever so slightly.

"Sherlock, I, uh, hadn't meant to blame it on you. I just thought, well, it's likely a trap. He's trying to draw you in. And I can't..." John's voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he finished "and I can't lose you. Not again. Not you as well."

He had been looking at his clasped hands while talking, but now dared to glance upwards into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock stared back with an unwavering gaze. He stood up.

"I'm not very good with this compassion thing you preach," he said. "But I promised you I'd try." He walked over to John and stood before him, looking expectantly. John's eyebrows knit together in question.

"Well don't just sit there, stand up," Sherlock commanded. John hesitatingly obliged. Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his arms around John and held him close.

After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, John let himself collapse in his friend's warm embrace. He rested his head upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall and hearing the quick beating of the heart. John could breathe in Sherlock's warmth, his life, and his deodorant that smelled suspiciously like John's. He could even smell the lavender wafting from the dark curls.

Sherlock held John slightly tighter and John reveled in the human comfort. His heartbeat slowed as he finally relaxed in a welcomed embrace. The pounding of Sherlock's heart quickened before he suddenly pulled away.

"I have work to do," he said, stone-faced once again. He twirled around to grab his coat and leave.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I have a case to attend. Dead bodies are waiting."

"Should I come?" John asked, fumbling around and trying to remember where he put his coat.

An infant's cry sliced through the heavy silence that had quickly suffocated the room. "I think Lucy needs care," Sherlock said quickly as he rushed down the stairs and out the door.

~

"Brother dear, this better be important," Mycroft drawled into the phone.

"Well I'm certainly not calling you to ask how your dreadfully dull life is going, brother dear," Sherlock replied.

"You'll be pleased to know I'm still alive and still successful. Now what do you want."

"Moriarty's head," Sherlock said flatly.

"Sherlock, your recent homicidal tendencies are a bit startling."

"I told you, I shot him because he was going to kill Mary."

"Yes, Sherlock, but next time try not to shoot an unarmed man who had been vital to the government."

Sherlock scoffed. "The man wanted to blackmail you as well, brother. You should be thanking me."

"Get to your point already; why did you call me and interrupt my lovely slice of cake?"

"Moriarty. Have you found him yet?"

"I told you I would call when we located him. This is a waste of my time."

"He's in London, Mycroft. He's rebuilt his network. And...." Sherlock cleared his throat, then choked out, "and he killed Mary."

"Mary died in childbirth," Mycroft said with slight uncertainty.

"I've read a letter telling of a maternity team bribed to ensure complications occurred."

"Dammit, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his usual calm demeanor waning. "Does John know?"

"John's the one who received the letter," Sherlock whispered, then cleared his throat. "Mycroft, I need you to strengthen the manhunt. He's not after me alone this time. He's taking collateral damage."

"Sherlock, we're doing all we...."

"Dammit Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. "Do more! He's trying to weaken me by taking away the small handful of people in this whole bloody world whose lives I actually value! Mary is gone, Mycroft! And who's next? Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson?"

The phone was shaking in his hand. Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "John?"

"Sherlock, I can't move resources for personal matters."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft! I'm too smart for your bullshit! We both know you can and you better damn do so. And what if he decides to go after my dear brother, what then? Do I tell mum that Mikey died because he wouldn't let his brother Sherlock ON THE CASE?"

"Is that what you want, to be back on the case?"

"And secret supervision of Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John at all times."

"You do remember why you were taken off the case, don't you?"

"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I remember everything. Really, Mycroft, can we drop the stupid questions and remember I have a key to your house and quite a few homeless friends who wouldn't mind a stay?"

"Sherlock...."

"Put me on the case, Mycroft. I need this."

"Fine, only so you don't waste more of my time. But I do have a question first. Are you asking me now because you've missed the thrill you get from these things, or because you're seeking vengeance for John?"

Sherlock flipped the phone shut.

~

John was walking back from the store with a bag of baby diapers and formula hoisted in his left arm. A long black car pulled up beside him as he waited to cross at the intersection. He sighed as the rear window rolled down and a dark haired woman stuck out her head.

John rolled his head. "I hope we're going somewhere nice this time," he complained. "I could use a cup of tea in a nice, cozy café if it's not such an inconvenience."

The door swung open and John climbed into the car.

~

"I really was hoping for a café this time. Maybe a restaurant?" John questioned.

"I'm really not a fan of noisy places crowded with average people and their boring conversations," Mycroft replied.

"So I see you're a fan of abandoned tube tunnels," John deadpanned.

"Yes." Mycroft's menacing smile stretched across his face. "We need to have another conversation about my dear brother."

"He's been rather boring lately for him. Just following Lestrade around like a lost puppy and solving simple cases. He hasn't taken any clients in months," John rattled.

"Yes, well, there's probably _something_ going on in that head of his that's convinced him to do so. While that would normally seem troublesome, we have a bigger problem at hand."

"Is... Is he found? Do you know where he is? What he's planned?" John looked with pleading eyes, nearly begging Mycroft to reveal any answers with his voice.

But Mycroft didn't have answers. "No. Sherlock has requested to be placed on the case again."

"But, but I thought he said he left the case because he didn't want to 'participate in Moriarty's boring games.'"

"Did he? How vain of him. Well regardless of his ego and lies, Sherlock is in great danger."

"Are you saying he was kicked off the case?"

"I think the phrase we had used was 'banned,'" Mycroft replied. "As I was saying, now that he is back on the case I fear his life is in jeopardy. Moriarty...."

"Banned? Why the hell was he banned?"

"John, please stop interrupting. Moriarty is out for blood. More specifically, Sherlock's blood. I need you to watch over him. Stop him from doing anything drastic. And preferably, keep him distant from the case. It was hard enough sending him to his death the last time. This time I fear death is inevitable if he's not careful."

"Hold on, I think you lost me. You sent your brother to his death?" The disbelief on John's face was evident.

"Well, almost. I thought you knew." Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"No, I don't know. Care to elaborate?"

"The plane, John. Sherlock was being sent on an M6 mission."

"Yes, and he said it'd be over in six months. Then he'd be back."

"Be back? No, John, in six months he would've been dead."

"And, and you sent your own brother on this mission."

"It was that or the death penalty," Mycroft replied. "I thought I would buy him some time, and hopefully London would miss him enough to dismiss his murder charges. But then Moriarty made his move."

"As if he knew Sherlock's death was coming, and it wouldn't be at his hands," John thought aloud.

"Precisely. Moriarty is seeking vengeance, John, and only Sherlock's blood will satisfy him."

~

John burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Where the hell is Sherlock?" he shouted. A baby's cry replied.

"John, John dear! We just got her to nap," Mrs. Hudson protested, rushing to greet him.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, breathing heavily, face red with rage.

"He's upstairs, dear," Mrs. Hudson answered. "He was just playing the violin to put Lucy to sleep."

John climbed up the steps, two at a time, and burst into the room containing his daughter's cradle and Sherlock Holmes with a violin tucked under his chin.

"Really, John, I thought you'd be more considerate of your own baby. I just got her to sleep and now she's wailing again. It's quite difficult to think anymore."

John stormed up to his friend and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he screamed.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock said calmly, placing his violin down. "And for God's sake, quiet down. You're disturbing the baby."

"M6. Six months. And you didn't _tell me?_ " John was fuming, his hands shaking as they grasped Sherlock's shirt.

"I told you I was going on a mission that would last six months. What else was there to tell?"

"Don't lie to me Sherlock! Mycroft told me! He told me, six months and you were going to be dead. For real this time! _And you didn't tell me!_ "

"John, I didn't think it was something you should know."

"You're my best friend, and you were just going to leave me again?" John's anger broke into a sob as tears began streaming down his face. "Sherlock, I lost you once before. And it was hell. Hell. I... I can't lose you again, and you didn't even let me say a proper goodbye."

Sherlock stood up and removed John's hands from his shirt. "John," he whispered, still holding his hands. "You didn't lose me though. I'm still here."

"But what if Moriarty hadn't sent that message? What if you really left? And I didn't get to say goodbye?"

"Would your goodbye have been different if you knew I was heading to my death?" Sherlock asked.

John sobbed loudly and looked up into his friend's eyes. They were a stormy gray color today, beautiful and unnerving. He was vulnerable under that stare, unable to hide from the intellect behind those eyes that analyzed his every move. There was no use in lying to Sherlock, or pretending.

"Yes," he choked out. "It would've."

"John, you had Mary and a baby coming. I... I couldn't tell you. We both know, you would try coming for me. And I couldn't do that to you or Mary. And I certainly couldn't burden you with the knowledge of my impending death. Besides, we all die eventually. It's just a matter of time."

"I... I would've saved you if I had to. Somehow. I would've. You said it yourself, Sherlock, I save lives. But dammit, why can't I save the lives of the ones I love?" John pulled his hands out of Sherlock's and

wrapped his arms around him as he leaned his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing in the comforting familiarity of his smell as his tears soaked his shirt.

Sherlock uncomfortably rubbed John's back, assuming that was what John would want. Compassion. "I don't know," he whispered into John's ear, his lips just brushing against the man's skin. "I don't know."

John stifled another sob and pulled back. He reached into the crib to rock the crying baby in his arms. "One more question, Sherlock," he managed in a cracked voice. "What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"


	3. Deal With The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will do anything to keep his family safe

John sat at the table with Lucy in his arms and a bottle in his hand. Before him was a bowl of oatmeal, untouched, that had once been warm. His eyes fluttered, barely able to suppress the sleep attempting to blanket him. Coffee. What he needed was lots and lots of coffee.

"Morning," Sherlock announced as he strolled into the kitchen in his robe. He rumbled through the refrigerator before settling on orange juice, then opened a cabinet and pasted on his daily nicotine patches. John said nothing in reply.

"Are we still not talking today?" Sherlock questioned as he sat down across from John, who simply glared back at him.

~

"Hello, Sherlock. Oh how I've missed you."

"What do you want," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.

"I want a lot of things, Sherlock."

"What do you want with me."

"No hello? You're not going to ask how I am? That's really quite rude of you."

"I did kill a man. Unfortunately, some people thought he mattered. I guess I don't have the best manners."

"Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm quivering."

"What do you want? This isn't a game."

"That's where you're wrong. That's exactly what this is. A game. My game, to be more specific," Moriarty grinned. "Too bad you didn't see me in the Crown's Jewels, because in this game, I am the queen, and you are nothing but a pawn."

"You're forgetting that I like to beat you at your own games," Sherlock bragged. "I survived your last game. I took down your network. I made you into nothing."

"Oh dear Sherlock, you're forgetting I'm back," Moriarty whispered menacingly. "What have you really done? Absolutely nothing. I survived too, Sherlock. I am the brain, I am the gamemaker, and you? You are nothing. I have more networks than you will ever know about. But you can't kill the system until you kill the brain, and well, you're quite good at failing at that, aren't you?"

"What's stopping me from putting a bullet in you right now?" Sherlock threatened.

"I'd say a bullet into John Watson," Moriarty replied, folding his hands in his lap. "Kill me, and you kill him too. Will that blood on your hands matter? And, do tell, where is your faithful companion? Not here, no. Not on Baker Street anymore." Moriarty leaned in, whispering, "Do you miss him, Sherlock? You can tell me. It'll be our little secret. How did it feel to come back and find out that you'd been replaced? Huh? And who's John with now? Mary."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I have not been replaced," he spat back.

Moriarty leaned back in the chair with a smirk. "Sherlock," he cooed. "You're not a hero, Sherlock. You're just like me. Why do you keep playing with the angels? They're no fun."

Sherlock scoffed.

"We're both going to hell anyway," Moriarty whispered. "You can run around, trying to cope with this world, with these people, these simple minded people. Or you could join me. We could have fun," he tempted. "Besides, in the end we're both going to the same place anyway."

"I don’t believe in a hell and I don't believe we're the same," Sherlock said flatly. "Anything else? You're cutting into my teatime."

"Well if you won't take me up on that offer, I still owe you, don't I?"

"Are you going to put a bullet in me? Please, that's so cliché."

"You'll see, Sherlock. You'll see." Moriarty casually strolled out the door.

Sherlock let out his breath, frustrated with the open-ended puzzles and homicidal games of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty's head popped through the doorway. "Oh, and for old time's sake," he grinned.

Before he could move, a red light filtered through the window, landing between Sherlock's feet, quickly followed by a whizzing bullet.

"Cliché, I know," Moriarty laughed, "but I couldn't resist. Oh, and it looks like I don't owe you any longer." He left.

~

"How could you be so stupid?!" Mycroft yelled. It wasn't often that Mycroft really yelled, although it was common for him to call his younger brother stupid. "Don't you see what you've done? You are banned from the Moriarty case, Sherlock!"

~

"Sherlock, I'm bored," Moriarty complained into the phone.

"Why are you calling me?" he replied flatly.

"Because I'm bored, Sherlock. Let's play a game."

"I thought we already were in your game."

"Okay, why don't you entertain me? My cards say I have a sniper ready to splatter the brains of John Watson in front of his wife. Your counter?"

"What do you want Moriarty?" Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly as he held the phone to his ear.

"I'd say a good card to pull out right now would be the Indigo File from your brother Mycroft. How about a trade? You get John Watson's life, and I get those files."

"I don't even know what files you're talking about," Sherlock replied honestly.

"Sherlock, dear, you don't need to know. All you need to know is the trigger is ready and I want those files. By midnight. I'll see you then." The line clicked shut.

~

"Dammit, Sherlock! Do you even know what was in those files?"

"I... I had to save John," Sherlock stuttered.

Mycroft let out a deep breath. "Sherlock, you can't be part of this case anymore. You can't have access to this information. You're letting emotions override your reasoning."

"I don't have emotions," Sherlock replied. "What was in the file?"

"You didn't even look?" Mycroft asked in disbelief. "Where is your curiosity, O Great Detective?"

"Don't mock me Mycroft. I was running out of time. John was in danger."

"Sherlock, I can't tell you what was in the file. That was classified information that you handed over to Britain's greatest homegrown terrorist. Willingly. You're banned, little brother, and lucky I pulled strings so you wouldn't be prosecuted for treason."

"Mycroft...."

"Get out before I change my mind."

~

"What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"

Sherlock looked at the curiosity blazing in John's eyes, and the concern tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't tell him. It would shatter the broken man. He was already so fragile. The tears were still fresh in his eyes, staining his face, dripping onto the infant in his arms. Sherlock didn't have emotions. But why is this man my weakness?

He couldn't answer John's question. But he couldn’t lie to the man either. And he knew if he didn't speak up now, the words would come out later, in another letter, from Moriarty himself. He had to phrase things correctly, had to word it to soften the blow in any possible way. Sherlock remembered the pain he felt from the bullet slicing through his flesh as he nearly died on Magnusson's office floor. The pain he felt now was so similar as he managed to bring the words into his throat, choke on them, and finally let them out.

"John, put Lucy back down."

"What? Why?"

"Just please, please listen to me." He waited for the baby to be placed carefully in the cradle. "You should sit down."

"Sherlock, what the hell happened?" John felt behind him and stumbled into his chair, refusing to take his eyes off the taller man. The worry lines grew deeper in his face.

"John, I... Moriarty. I made a deal with him."

"You made a deal with the devil?" John asked in disbelief.

"Please, just let me finish," Sherlock begged. "I made a deal with Moriarty. If I gave him a secret file, he wouldn't take your life. He was going to kill you, and I couldn't let him."

"Okay. Okay," John nodded. "That's reasonable. What was on the file?"

"I... I didn't get a chance to look at it before I handed it over. I was running out of time. The deadline, John. So I just gave it to him." Sherlock could feel actual tears begin to well in his eyes. Fuck, he thought. I never cry. But the words were too painful, and the pain was too strong for his meticulously built emotional defenses.

"Sherlock."

There's so much worry in his voice, Sherlock sadly noted. "I... I didn't find out until later. Moriarty sent me a letter, shortly after you received yours."

~

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Thank you for being such a dear and giving me those Indigo Files. They were greatly appreciated. I know they must have come at a high price for you. Mycroft probably won't tell you the big secret you let slip, so I'll be a kind gentleman and let you in on the secret. The files were about me, but I'm sure you guessed that much already. I've been a naughty boy, Sherlock. I had a naughty plan._

_But you should really thank me. I'm writing you this lovely letter, giving you secret information, and... wait for it... I gave you back John Watson. Got rid of that bloody Mary. Lucky us. My plans were almost foiled. I had a rat trying to warn the government, but without the files, they lost all the information to act upon anything. The names, pictures, identities, everything on the team I had working inside the hospital. Making it impossible to figure out who to watch, who to ban from the maternity ward. Making it easy for my team to kill the bitch._

_I'd thank you, but I think you should really be thanking me._

_You're welcome_

~

Sherlock munched on a piece of toast and watched the sleepy-eyed John Watson try to stay awake and feed his daughter, a task which seemed to be quite a struggle for the father. "Want me to feed her?" he asked.

John glared.

"Lestrade said they have a serial killer that likes to behead victims. Want to come with me?"

No response.

"Dammit, John!" Sherlock yelled, losing his temper. Lucy began wailing. "You haven't said a word to me in a week! A whole bloody week!"

"You killed my wife!" John finally shouted back. "What do you want me to say? You killed Mary!"

"Bloody hell, I saved your life! I didn't know! I didn't know what was in the file!"

"Like hell you didn't. You're Sherlock Holmes. You know everything."

"I put a bullet through a man's skull to protect your wife, John Watson. I murdered a man to save her. And they were going to send me to my death. I did all that for Mary. For you."

"And then you decided to make a deal with the devil," John shouted over his infant's cries.

"I was trying to save your life! That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to save you." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end as he felt the pain returning, seething like the wound from a bullet hole. "I... I was trying to save you," he repeated, a barely audible whisper, before his head hit the table.

"Sherlock, what the hell," John complained, but the curly head didn't move. "Sherlock?" He walked around the table, still carrying the baby, and took one of the pale hands. Only a slight pulse could be felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, if you like this please leave comments! I started this story and have a few chapters after this one but I don't know if I want to alter the path I took so any criticism is greatly appreciated (and even if you don't like it maybe some tips so it's better please?)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock always manages to save the day, right?

"John," Sherlock called out, his voice hoarse. "John, I'm sorry." His head was throbbing as he tried to open his eyes, only to see the world spinning around him. There was too much noise, too much motion.

"Sherlock, I'm here."

As his senses slowly crawled back to him, he could feel a hand enclosing his own and the voice of John Watson, barely audible over the commotion around him. There were others around him shouting numbers, statistics... where was he? Gradually his head began to clear and the incessant buzzing he had been hearing faded away, freeing the tension pounding in his head and his vision. He was lying on his back but could feel bumps and jerks beneath him as sirens wailed above. An ambulance.

"John, get me out of here," Sherlock demanded.

"You passed out! Your pulse nearly stopped," John replied. "You need to go to the hospital!"

"I can't. Get me out of here."

"Christ, Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

"I have to get out of here!" he shouted, wincing with the pain that came from the effort.

"You're already on your way," John said, patting his friend's hand. "You're almost there."

Sherlock started thrashing about to the best of his ability, despite his confines. "No!" he cried. "I can't, I can't!"

"Sir, we're going to have to sedate you," one of the ambulance technicians said, sticking a needle into Sherlock's neck.

"No, no, no..." His voice faded off as the ambulance carried on with John inside, clutching the cold hand of Sherlock Holmes and praying that he wouldn't lose another.

* * *

"Sherlock," a voice called out. "Sherlock. Wakey wakey." It wasn't John's.

As his eyes came to focus, the face of Jim Moriarty hovered inches above his.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shaky and weak.

"Aren't you so faithful to your pet?" Moriarty mocked. "He's over there." He tipped his head, Sherlock's gaze following.

John was tied to a chair, gagged, and handcuffed. His head hung limp with a bloody gash near the left temple, still fresh and flowing. Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"It was so kind of him to offer to come along, wasn't it," Moriarty contemplated. "I'm still surprised he picked that dreadful woman over you." He tenderly ran a hand along Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock tried to slap it away, only to find his hands strapped to the bed he was on. He couldn't fight back. "Don't speak of her like that!" Sherlock croaked. "Mary was better than you or I could ever be."

"Oh, don't get so defensive," Moriarty complained. "And really, if I'm going to be quite honest, no one can be better than me. I'm simply the best."

"She had a heart, something you'll never have."

"Do you have a heart Sherlock?" Moriarty whispered, leaning in again.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage," Sherlock replied. "I've purged myself from any traces of the dreaded stuff."

"So you wouldn't mind if I were to, say, butcher John here in front of you, would you? Of course not; the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel for anyone he says."

Sherlock fought against the restraints, but his futile attempts only made his frail body weaker. "This is between you and me, Moriarty! Leave John out of it!"

"This is my game, Sherlock. I'm the one who gets to make the rules. And this is more fun for me."

"Are you going to kill me this time?" Sherlock scoffed, refusing to give into Moriarty's ego.

"Oh Sherlock, can't you feel it? You're already dying," he whispered. "Really, this has been too easy." Moriarty gave a menacing grin and walked over to John, removing the gag. "Now he can tell you how much he hates you with his dying breath," Moriarty teased, then walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone to die.

The door clicked shut, the sound making Sherlock cringe as he recognized the sound of a lock sliding in place. The lights had left with Moriarty, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he focused on the silhouette of John. He waited for the man to shudder awake suddenly, his attack mode still on.

"Sherlock?" John called out. "Sherlock!" His voice echoed in the empty room.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock managed.

"What... what happened? Where are we?"

"Moriarty happened." The words tasted like poison on his lips. "We're in a locked room. I'd guess a storage facility."

John was silent for a long time before he asked, "Is it real this time?"

"Is what real?"

"Are we really going to die this time?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and John wasn't entirely sure if he wasn't dead already until he heard him whisper: "I'm sorry."

* * *

Lestrade was frustrated with his recent case. Adding to that frustration was Sherlock Holmes, who had promised to visit the crime scene that morning and had yet to show up. It was unlike Sherlock to be late to a crime scene, especially one as gruesome and perplexing as the one at hand. He was crouched by the recent beheaded victim, found in a dumpster, when his phone began buzzing persistently.

7:12 Sherlock passed out. Weak pulse. Going to the hospital.

"Oh, fuck," Lestrade said out loud, running a hand through his silver hair. The text from John was concerning, and with anything involving Sherlock, it also involved trouble. Lestrade left orders for the forensics on the scene and climbed into his car, weaving his way through the streets of London to the hospital.

* * *

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. Where is he?" Lestrade asked the woman at the reception desk.

"Sherlock Holmes? The detective guy with the hat?"

"Yeah, where is he? What floor?"

"Are you a relative?" she asked.

"No, I'm a bloody cop! Where the hell is he?" He pulled out his badge and showed it to her, his frustration growing once again.

The woman looked flustered and began quickly typing at her keyboard. "There's no record of Mr. Holmes being here," she said, looking up nervously.

"Did the ambulance hit traffic? What's going on? 221 Baker Street. Any ambulances sent to 221 Baker Street?"

She began typing furiously again. "There was a call a good half hour ago," she replied, "but the ambulance was called off. That's odd."

Lestrade felt the air in his lungs turn heavy and cold. "That is odd," he murmured, then ran out to his car to phone the station.

* * *

The officers sent to Baker Street found nothing but a worried Mrs. Hudson trying to calm a baby in her arms. Lestrade scratched his head and nervously called Mycroft, uncertain of what happened.

"Did you get John's text?" Lestrade asked the moment the phone picked up.

"Yes. What is it this time?"

"He's not at the hospital, Mycroft. He never made it there."

There was an eerie pause. "He's dead?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know what happened to him. The ambulance was called off, according to the hospital. But Mrs. Hudson saw one cart him and John away."

"Well did you try texting either one?"

"Repeatedly. No answer. Shit, Mycroft, you don't think it was..."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Mycroft cut in.

"Well what do we..." The phone clicked off. "Mycroft?"

* * *

John wanted to hate Sherlock. He had given away the information that had lead to his wife's death. He had made an enemy out of the man who now had John tied to a chair and given him a gash on the head that left a resounding headache. Now he was going to die, slowly, painfully, and leaving his baby girl an orphan. But as much as he wanted to hate Sherlock, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, making John's heart drop. John saw the deep sincerity in those blue-gray eyes and the shame as they looked away. The pale face was eerily white in the darkness, but John had the feeling that it was more drained of color than usual. He could hear the detective's ragged breathing and saw the way his hands were weakly shuddering. Sherlock was dying fast, and John was watching once again as life left his best friend.

"Sherlock, you'll think of something. We'll find a way. We always find a way."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock replied. "I... There's nothing. I can't do anything. I'm so sorry."

The words took clear effort from the dying man's lips, and John shuddered as he could hear the strength leaving the body. "Sherlock," John whispered sullenly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," Sherlock retorted. "I... It's all my fault. Mary. And you. And poor Lucy is alone now. I promised, John, and I failed. Three times over." His body shook as sobs escaped.

"Sherlock, you're my best friend. And I know, I know you tried. I accepted this life, this bloody dangerous life. And throughout it you've always tried to protect me, and my family."

"I love her John," Sherlock whispered. "Lucy. I love her. I know she's your daughter, but... sometimes she feels like mine too. When I hold her, and when I play for her, and when she smiles..."

The tears sprung to John's eyes as he thought of his baby girl. And it was true, Sherlock was as big a part of her life as he was. They raised her together, and Sherlock had done so much for her, especially on the days where John struggled to simply get out of bed. "I know, Sherlock. Thank you."

"John, there's got to be a way. Somehow. You have to make it," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "For Lucy. You can't leave her. She needs you. Dammit, why can't I think of a way?"

"It seems we can never save the ones we love," John whispered back, then finally gave way to the sorrow swelling inside, letting the sobs overtake him. It was true: Sherlock Holmes was often seen as heartless and cold inside, but John knew better. Beneath the stoic exterior was a man who felt compassion, burning inside his heart, for the ones he truly cared about. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sobbing over his impending death. He was crying for the infant girl he loved and was leaving behind.

* * *

"Shit!" Lestrade yelled, throwing his phone across the room. He couldn't find them. Mycroft had checked London surveillance cameras, but the ambulance had been lost somewhere, taking a back road unmonitored or switching vehicles somewhere in a blind spot. Fucking Moriarty. The sick bastard.

He held his head in his hands, feeling the intense migraine that accompanied his frustration. Where the fuck could they be?

Lestrade's phone began buzzing violently. "Mycroft. Oh god. Tell me you've found them."

"I hate to admit it, but I think Sherlock saw this coming. We had placed agents to trail John at all times, and they lost the ambulance. But they've found something."

"Dammit, Mycroft, is it them? Where are they?"

"I'll let you know," Mycroft said, hanging up.

Lestrade threw his phone again, annoyed with Mycroft. "He's worse than Sherlock," he complained.

* * *

Sherlock had stopped making any sounds at all. John's heart sunk as he tried to keep his head free from the thought that his best friend was dead. "Sherlock," he sobbed. "Don't die. Don't leave me. We're going to make it. We have to make it."

There was a scraping sound in the direction of the bolted door.  _He's probably coming back to gloat over Sherlock's death_ , John thought bitterly. The scraping intensified as shouts could be heard. Shouts.  _Why would Moriarty shout_?

"Hello?" John called out, his heart quickening with hope. "Is there anyone there? Oh, god, please say there's someone there!"

The shouts increased before dying away suddenly. John choked as his tears came back, his hope gone. A sudden detonation blasted his eardrums as the door was blasted off the hinges. Terror now had a hold on him.

"John Watson?" a man asked as sunlight streamed through the opening, blinding John.

"Are you here to help me or kill me?" John shouted blindly in the direction of the voice.

"Here to help, sir," another voice answered from behind as the straps bounding John's hands were cut.

Tears of joy sprung to his eyes. "Thank god, someone has to help my friend though! Who sent you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice replied, cutting the ties strapping his feet to the chair.

In seconds John was freed and rushing over to the bed where Sherlock was being checked by the first voice. "Is... is he alive?" John asked, his heart pounding.

"Barely," the man answered. "Help me roll him out of here."

"Who... who are you?" John asked. "How did you find us?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man answered. "We work for Sherlock, and he sent us to find you. Let's go now. We have to get him out of here."

John helped the man wheel the bed out to a waiting industrial truck, where the other voice, a woman, was waiting at the wheel. "Is he going to make it?" John asked hesitantly.

"We'll see, Doctor Watson. We have a basic medical kit in the back. You can tend to him until we reach the hospital, yes?"

The vehicle had government plates, and as the man opened the back, John saw the box suited for medical transport. "Yeah," John replied, stunned. "But we can't go to the hospital. Moriarty..."

Another voice answered him. "Moriarty won't have access to him. You'll have to figure it out, John. Molly will help."

John had been busy looking at the beeping machines and medical fixtures, so he was startled by this third voice. He looked up quickly to see Mycroft in the back of the truck. "Let's go," Mycroft commanded. "We can't waste time."

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock overhears John and Molly talking

The next time Sherlock remembered waking up he was hooked to an IV, lying drowsily on a movable bed in his bedroom. He turned his head to the right to see John in his chair, his sleeping head propped up by his arm. There was a side table set up on his other side with a cup of tea, likely from Mrs. Hudson, and two get-well cards: an elaborate card with precision handwriting and another bought from a drugstore that sold cheesy cards. The first was likely from Molly; the later was probably from his parents, since he had received the same one from them multiple times with Mycroft's name added in his mother's handwriting.

On the other side of the side table Lucy's crib had been set up. The little girl looked through the bars with her wide blue eyes at Sherlock as she sat up and reached out for him with her chubby hands. He smiled, noting how tiring the simple action was to his weakened body. "Durla," she called out to him, and he couldn't help the straining smile that appeared on his face as she tried to say his name the best her young voice could manage.

"Hello, Lucy," he whispered back, barely lifting a trembling hand in an attempt to connect with the baby.

"Durla! Durla!" She squealed, clapping her hands together. The noise startled John, whose hand moved with the sudden sound as his head jerked awake.

"Sherlock," John said, half asleep and likely responding to a dream rather than the man before him. He shook his head and let his eyes focus before looking over and exclaiming, "Sherlock! You're awake!"

"Yes, it appears I am. I have to say, John, these near-death experiences with you are getting quite tiresome," he grinned.

John gave a faint smile back. "Or it could be the poison in your system making you tired."

"Poison?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Your nicotine patches. They were poisoned, slowly leaking the toxins into your bloodstream. I guess that morning pushed you over the edge."

"John, that means... that means," he stuttered.

"That he was here. Moriarty. Here in the house where my little girl sleeps. Yeah," John replied.

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock whispered. It was one thing to have Moriarty show up and make demands. It was another for him to pop in while neither adult was home to supervise baby Lucy, left alone with a babysitter. The babysitter....

"Fire Susan," Sherlock said immediately.

"What?"

"Fire Susan."

"Because...."

"Because she let him in the fucking house, John! This is our... this is your daughter! No more babysitters. We can't leave her alone with strangers, or anyone incapable of defending his or herself against potential threats."

"I... uh, yeah," John replied, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "You're right. We can't."

"We'll have to figure something out. A schedule of sorts. Maybe...."

"Sherlock, Harry's coming to stay."

"Harry? Who the bloody hell is Harry?"

"My sister, Sherlock. And her fiancée. I've asked them to stay with us, just for awhile. To watch Lucy. So we can stop Moriarty once and for all."

"Right, Harry. The alcoholic Harry?"

"She's been sober for over a year now," John defended.

"And what are her qualifications when it comes to childcare?"

"Dammit, Sherlock, she's my sister. She's family. What qualifications do you have to watch Lucy?" John retorted.

Sherlock stared back blankly.

"Oh. Oh shit, Sherlock, I didn't mean...."

"No. No, you're right, John. I don't know anything about babies. I don't know much about caring for any human, in fact."

"Sherlock, I... I didn't mean it like that. I didn't. I was just... Things have been so damn stressful lately, Sherlock. And I'm scared as hell." John looked into Sherlock's gray eyes, pleading for him to understand with the desperation they conveyed.

Sherlock looked back into John's eyes. "I know, John. I know." He rested his head on his pillow and shut his eyes, trying to withdraw himself from the world completely. In that moment, he didn't want to be Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to be a genius or a detective. He wanted to know what it felt like to be normal. To not worry that a psychopath was on the loose, threatening to take away everyone he actually gave a damn about. If he was normal, he wouldn't be a target. John wouldn't be a target. Lucy would be safe in the arms of both of her parents.

He had never before wished to be normal. He couldn't understand how normal people were satisfied in their boring, oblivious minds. And they always seemed to be going on about dull things like love and emotions, areas he had always deemed unimportant. He was correct in logic when he told Irene Adler that sentiment was found on the losing side. But Sherlock didn't lose. He refused. Yet he could place no other name but sentiment on his feelings for John and Lucy.

Moriarty. He was able to throw out any and all feelings. Did that make him the winning side?

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Yes, John?" He didn't move a muscle, still closing his eyes on the pillow.

"What did those people mean, they were sent by you? The ones who saved us."

Sherlock opened one eye and peered at his friend. "I hired some people to trail you. And Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson as well, of course, but yours proved to be the most valuable under the circumstances."

"You... I was being trailed?" John spluttered.

"Yes, and may I say, the amount of time you spent at the bar during your depression was quite worrisome. I was debating whether or not to drag you to an alcoholics meeting."

John breathed out a huff. "Normally I would hate you for a few days, but since you saved our lives, I'll let this one go."

Sherlock grinned. "Really I should be thanking you. They came because you were in danger. No one was coming because I was in danger. Fortunately, my best friend stayed with me because I was in danger. Thank you, John."

John opened his mouth to reply, but no coherent thoughts could come to mind. By the time he thought of a reasonable response, he could hear the slowed rate of Sherlock's breathing and see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

* * *

 

"How is he?" Molly Hooper asked as she pulled drugs from her coat pockets.

"He's..." John rocked his head in thought. "He's getting there. Still really weak. Did you bring what I asked for?"

"Yeah, it's all here," Molly said, pointing at the jars and containers of medicines she had placed on the table before her. She brushed a stray auburn hair from her face. "And how are you, John?"

"Life with Sherlock... It's not easy, Molly."

"But I'm sure it's worth it."

John was silent for a moment. "Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly. Maybe before, when I was a bachelor. When I could afford to be carefree and reckless. But now, now I have a daughter to take care of. I can't leave her alone, but I put both of us at risk every day just because we're associated with Sherlock Holmes. And Mary..." He took a ragged breath before finishing, "and befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."

Molly was stunned for a moment. "I thought... childbirth?"

John shook his head. "Moriarty likes collateral damage," he whispered. "We're all in danger. Me, you, Lestrade. Because we decided to associate ourselves with a man named Sherlock Holmes."

Molly bit her lip. "Why do we love him when he claims he's incapable of love?" she whispered.

"Because we know it's a lie," John answered, equally silent.

They stood in silence, contemplating the complexities of their lives that centered around a singular man with an unusual mind and attraction for trouble. Molly then went into Sherlock's room, to check on his progress and chat, but he was sound asleep. She brushed his curls away from his eyes and planted a kiss on his forehead before leaving and sharing a glance with John as they both wondered whether love was enough to keep them connected to the one who claimed it was a disease that could not penetrate him.

* * *

 

"But I'm sure it's worth it."

"Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly."

The words sliced through Sherlock like razors. John Watson was uncertain whether or not he wanted to remain connected to Sherlock. Of course, logic said that even if John moved across the world he'd still be in danger. It didn't matter that he liked Sherlock. It mattered to Moriarty that Sherlock liked him. But John, his best friend, his one true friend....

And then salt was poured on Sherlock's wounds: "Befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."

There it was. John was still harboring blame for Sherlock in his wife's death.

As he heard footsteps approach he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, trying to keep his mind away from the conversation he had overheard so as to appear calm while inside he was screaming. He could smell the perfume and knew it was Molly who stroked his hair and bent down to kiss him. Molly always gave more compassion to him than he ever deserved or returned. He thought again about what it'd be like to live a normal life. Maybe if he had been destined for that life he would've settled down with Molly and raised children of his own, who he could honestly claim as his own, unlike Lucy.

No. He was kidding himself. He wanted to feel something for Molly because he genuinely cared about Molly. But even if he was average, he'd settle down with a nice bloke like John, not a woman like Molly. Janine had noticed. Sherlock knew too, although he wasn't very in touch with his sexual side. But if he was going to be average and start a family, it would be with another man, not a woman.

It wasn't even something he'd really considered until he met John. He remembered their first days together and telling John that he wasn't interested. He was married to his work. And back when he said it, it had been so true. His work was all he cared about. And then this man named John Watson entered his life and saved his life and changed the way he saw the world. Eventually it became harder and harder to ignore the feelings awakening within.

When he returned, after his fake death, John was the first face he wanted to see. The only face he wanted to see. The only face he needed to see. Sure, there was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, but they hadn't been on his mind every day for two years. They hadn't been in his dreams or his thoughts, and they hadn't been in the nightmares that woke him for quite a few months. Nightmares of Moriarty holding a gun to John's head, and firing.

He returned to London to a John that had not jumped to his feet and rushed to hug him, as he had expected. Fantasized, really. Instead he returned to John and Mary. Mary, who snapped him back to reality. Whose presence reminded him that he was not a normal man who could expect normal joys in his life. And John Watson had not waited two years for him, like he had always thought in his head. John moved on with his life, bringing Sherlock scrambling backwards to his.

Mary. He truly cared for Mary. She made John happy. If she had been just another girlfriend, Sherlock would have cast her aside as insignificant. But she wasn't. She had been John's fiancée, and she loved him. It was so obvious how her pulse quickened around John and his responded in the same way. She made John happy, and that made Sherlock happy. He willingly went back to routine of marriage to the job.

Now there was no Mary. There was only Sherlock, John, and Lucy. And it was becoming clear that Moriarty's antics were soon to leave it as Sherlock, alone with Mrs. Hudson on Baker Street.

He was losing his family.

Moriarty had to be stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and never doubt the abilities of any Sherlockian character (that's a hint)


End file.
